A Soft Landing

The garden chill clung to my coat, so I trotted back inside through the door flap. The hearth was unlit and dark, but next to the brick sat a low wicker basket heaped with rolled skeins of yarn. I paused, testing the silence. One fat skein of undyed wool rested near the edge, its surface fuzzy and inviting. Easing forward on quiet paws, I leaned my shoulder against it. It gave a heavy, warm yield, smelling of clean fleece and dust. I folded my paws beneath my chest, resting my chin directly upon the curved yarn, letting the quiet warmth soak in.